Chapter 308: Ideas For Cooperating With Smaller Factions

The first night of the Conclave of Five Peaks descended upon the valley, a blanket of stars glittering in the cold, clear sky. In the master chamber of the opulent Jorailian pavilion, however, the air was hot, thick with the aftermath of a different kind of summit.

Alaric Steele lounged on his massive bed, a picture of sated, yet still potent, power. He was naked, his Archmage physique, honed by battle and countless nights of strenuous activity, radiating a subtle, commanding aura in the soft glow of the mana lamps.

With him were his three most powerful and recently acquired Archmage-level women. They too were naked, their magnificent, mature bodies artfully arranged around him like offerings on an altar.

Queen Ondine Bellerose, her raven hair a dark cascade against the pale silks, was behind him, her skillful hands massaging the hard, unyielding muscles of his shoulders. Her touch was both reverent and deeply sensual, each knead a silent act of worship.

Archmage Priscilla, her usual stern composure melted away, reclined by his side, her head resting on a plush pillow. Her fingers, which could weave spells of devastating power, traced idle, tingling patterns on his chest, her touch a hesitant, yet undeniable, caress.

And Archmage Zylle Mordan knelt at the foot of the bed, a silent, beautiful statue of submission. Her magnificent, curvaceous body was a testament to her power and femininity, yet her posture was one of absolute, unquestioning servitude, her obsidian eyes downcast, awaiting his command.

The silence in the chamber was a comfortable one, the silence of a master and his thoroughly pleased possessions. But Alaric’s mind, as always, was already moving, already strategizing.

He broke the silence, his voice a low, calm rumble that vibrated through the bed. “The Conclave,” he began, his gaze fixed on the ornate ceiling. “A gathering of lions, all content in their pride, all convinced of their own supremacy.”

Ondine’s hands paused for a fraction of a second. “They are indeed formidable, my Lord. The Dragon Emperor’s aura alone is… immense.”

“Formidable, yes,” Alaric conceded. “But arrogant. Complacent. Appealing to them directly, trying to forge an alliance of equals… it is a waste of time. They see us as upstarts, a temporary anomaly. They will not listen until we hold a blade to their throats.”

He shifted slightly, his movement causing Priscilla to stir, her fingers momentarily stilling on his chest. “We will not court the lions, my dears,” he declared, a predatory smile touching his lips. “We will court the jackals and the wolves they ignore. The smaller, more desperate powers. They are the ones who are hungry. They are the ones who will listen.”

He reached back, his hand finding Ondine’s magnificent, heavy breast, his fingers closing around it in a possessive, familiar grip. Ondine gasped softly, her body arching into his touch, her massage faltering.

“I intend to host a banquet,” Alaric continued, his thumb brushing against her hardened nipple, his voice a low purr. “Not for the Emperors and Empresses. But for the leaders of the smaller, more vulnerable factions. We will create a new power bloc. A new alliance. With me at its center.”

“A… a brilliant strategy, my Lord,” Ondine managed to say, her voice a little breathless as his fingers continued their exquisite torment. “To build your own coalition from the ground up…”

“Indeed,” Alaric murmured. He then turned his gaze to Priscilla, who was watching him with wide, luminous eyes, her own body responding to the scene before her. “Priscilla,” he commanded softly. “Come here.”

Priscilla hesitated for a fraction of a second, a flicker of her old, defiant pride warring with the new, ingrained submission. But the command in his voice was absolute. She obeyed, crawling across the bed towards him.

He pulled her into his lap, her magnificent, voluptuous backside settling onto his powerful thighs. Her skin was soft, warm, and exquisitely sensitive. “Now, my dear Archmage,” he said, his voice a low growl as his hand came down with a sharp, stinging smack on her pale flesh.

“Ah!” Priscilla cried out, her body jolting.

“You will recount for me the historical precedents of such alliances,” he commanded, his other hand moving to cup her full, heavy breast. “While I remind you of your new, more… practical… duties.”

Priscilla trembled, a mixture of humiliation and a now-familiar, addictive thrill coursing through her. “The… the archives of Eloriath speak of the ’Fractured Crown Alliance’, my Lord,” she began, her voice a little shaky as he spanked her again, harder this time. “During the War of the Crimson Kings, the lesser baronies of the west united under a single, charismatic warlord to resist the larger kingdoms. Nnngh… they used their combined resources to hire mercenary armies and… and control vital trade routes.”

“Excellent,” Alaric praised, his hand moving from her reddened buttock to the soft blonde curls between her thighs, his fingers finding her slick, wet entrance. “And you, Zylle. Your turn.”

Zylle Mordan, who had been kneeling silently, her face a mask of cold, resentful submission, looked up. Her obsidian eyes, though filled with a deep, burning hatred, also held a flicker of something else. A desperate, unwilling anticipation.

“Master,” she said, her voice a low, resentful hiss.

“While I listen to my other advisors,” Alaric commanded, his voice a silken threat, “you will pleasure me with your mouth. A constant, humiliating reminder of your new place. And a way to… inspire… my strategic thinking.”

Zylle’s lips thinned, a wave of pure, incandescent rage washing over her. But she did not refuse. She knew the consequences of defiance. She crawled forward, her movements stiff with suppressed fury, and lowered her head to his lap, her magnificent, mature body a testament to her broken will.

As Zylle’s skilled mouth began to work its magic, Alaric turned his attention back to Ondine, who was watching with a mixture of pity and arousal. “Ondine,” he said, his voice now a low, commanding growl. “Your political counsel. Who are our primary targets? Who are the hungriest wolves at this Conclave?”

Ondine, her own body humming with desire, forced her mind to focus. “The Gryphon Riders of the Sky-Cliffs, my Lord,” she began, her voice a little breathless as Alaric’s fingers continued to explore Priscilla’s wet, welcoming cunt. “They are led by the proud Chieftain Kaelen. Their aeries are threatened by demonic remnants fleeing your… cleansing… of northern Eloriath. They are fiercely independent, but they need a powerful ally. And their riders… they would be a formidable addition to our forces.”

“The Dwarven Forgemasters of Ironhelm,” she continued, her gaze flickering to Zylle’s bobbing head. “Represented by the grim Master Forgemaster Borin Stonehand. Their trade has been disrupted by the war, their supply lines to the south cut off by the Confederacy’s conflict with the Sea Monsters. They are pragmatic. They will listen to an offer of secure routes and rare materials, especially our surplus demonic cores, which they can refine into powerful alloys.”

She paused, taking a deep breath as Alaric’s fingers inside Priscilla found a particularly sensitive spot, making the Archmage cry out. “And the lesser human kingdoms, my Lord. King Reginald of Strathmore, his kingdom is on the brink of collapse, squeezed between the Rimefrost Imperium and the demonic blights. The Kingdom of Veridia, a fertile land now suffering from a terrible drought that their own mages cannot seem to break. The Barony of Stonefall, rich in minerals but lacking the military might to defend itself from the encroaching ambitions of the Dragon Empire. They are all desperate. They are all ripe for the picking.”

“Excellent analysis, my Queen,” Alaric praised, his voice thick with his own rising pleasure. He then looked at Priscilla, who was now a trembling, moaning mess in his lap. “And you, my dear Priscilla. Your historical knowledge. What of the beast races? Who among them can be swayed?”

Priscilla, her mind a chaotic swirl of sensation and memory, forced herself to speak. “The… the Silver Moon Wolf Tribe, my Lord,” she gasped, her voice a ragged whisper as Alaric’s fingers moved faster, deeper. “They once had a blood pact with a minor Eloriath noble house that was wiped out in the war. They value tradition, honor. They might be receptive to a new pact, framed as… as honoring old traditions. Their Alpha, Fenria, is said to be… ah!… fierce, but honorable.”

“And the Sunstone Dwarves of the southern mountains,” she continued, her voice breaking as a small orgasm ripped through her. “They have an ancient grudge against the Suntouched Confederacy, who stole their ancestral lands centuries ago. We can… we can exploit that. Offer them aid in reclaiming their lands in exchange for their loyalty. And their… their formidable earth-shaping magic.”

“Brilliant, Priscilla,” Alaric grunted, his own control fraying under Zylle’s relentless, skillful ministrations. He pulled her head back, his hand tangled in her dark hair. “And you, my little spymaster,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Their secrets. Their vices. Give them to me.”

Zylle, her eyes glazed with a mixture of humiliation and a strange, unwilling pride in her own expertise, spoke, her voice muffled by his length. “Chieftain Kaelen… of the Gryphon Riders… has a weakness for rare, southern wines. And for… beautiful, voluptuous women. A private tasting, with the right… hostess… would be very persuasive.”

“Master Forgemaster Borin,” she continued, her mouth still working him. “His youngest daughter… is afflicted with a rare, petrifying illness. A magical curse. He is desperate for a cure. A cure… that only an alchemist of Master Noah’s former caliber… or a mage with your… unique resources… could provide.”

“And Alpha Fenria of the Wolf Tribe,” Zylle concluded, her voice a low, breathless murmur. “She is proud. She respects only strength. A demonstration of overwhelming, yet controlled, power… that is the only language she will understand.”

Alaric threw his head back, a deep, guttural groan rumbling in his chest. Zylle’s skilled mouth, combined with the intoxicating web of power and intrigue they were weaving, pushed him over the edge. He came with a roar, his seed flooding her throat.

Zylle choked, gagging, but she swallowed obediently, her eyes watering with a mixture of humiliation and a strange, triumphant satisfaction. She had pleased him. She had served her purpose.

Alaric pulled away, leaving her panting and trembling on the bed. He looked at Ondine, at Priscilla, his ruby eyes blazing with a triumphant, possessive fire. The strategic plan was solidified. The paths to their new allies, their new vassals, were clear.

“You have all… counseled me well, my dears,” Alaric said, his voice thick with lingering pleasure. “Your minds are as beautiful and as useful as your magnificent bodies.”

He slowly crawled towards them on the bed, his magnificent erection, impossibly, already stirring again. “And now,” he declared, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that promised a night of endless, exquisite depravity. “It is time for your reward.”

He was ready to claim the spoils of his successful war council. The discussion of politics and war seamlessly transitioned into a night of intense, commanding pleasure, their magnificent, mature, voluptuous bodies the ultimate prize in his grand, world-conquering game.